


Mr. Nickers, Or: How Bruce Wayne Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Horse

by succeeding



Series: Batfamily Equine Adventures [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Equestrian, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Horses, Humor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/succeeding/pseuds/succeeding
Summary: Bruce Wayne is rich enough to buy most anything in the world, but it seems that young Dick Grayson's happiness is the one thing without a price. With summer coming head-on and Dick left to his own devices at the same time of year his parents were murdered, Bruce is at a loss on how to help his ward adjust and become happier. Until, that is, Alfred brings up an (equestrian) offer he can't refuse.OR: Bruce becomes the most involved yet reluctant horse!dad OF ALL TIME.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batfamily Equine Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735747
Comments: 66
Kudos: 220
Collections: Dick & Bruce, everybody loves dick





	1. A Most Excellent Idea

“Master Wayne,” Alfred said one morning over breakfast. He was using the _tone_ that meant Bruce needed to provide his full attention by way of direct eye contact before he continued.

Bruce heaved his eyes up from his coffee. He liked it as dark as Gotham’s winter nights but right now not even its pungent taste could pull him from his delirium. As ever, Alfred was fresh and put-together, and in comparison he felt like even more of a trainwreck. 

“What is it Alfred.” It wasn’t his politest, but it _was_ in an intelligible human language and not the senseless grumblings of the senescent and dormescent, and so in fact it merited as a great achievement at this time of day.

“Hmm, you might consider some ice water rather than coffee, sir. It might perk up those baggy eyes such that you can pay better attention to a matter of import.”

“Sorry Alfred.” He blinked about ten times in a row in a vain bid to rid the exhaustion currently strangling his optic nerves. Alfred looked at him with clear doubt but nevertheless continued.  
  
“Right on, sir. It has come to my attention that Master Dick has been partaking of certain videos on the internet.” 

There was a subtle spark in Alfred’s eyes that Bruce caught only because he’d spent the last 25-odd years living with the man. It certainly wasn’t easier to spy when he was so tired, but Bruce _was_ a professional (er, sort-of?) detective. The implications took another minute to trickle their way through his mind, and then…

“Oh my _god_ ,” he blurted. “He’s _nine years old_. I thought those websites have age filters!” But then again, all one had to do was enter an older birthdate. “Never mind, stupid statement... We can install a parental block.”

That would be funny given that Dick had access to the Batcomputer. A lot of Batman’s work involved researching the less-than-couth. A brief vignette popped into his mind of being blocked by some nanny software while trying to research Gotham’s darker side. 

“Master Bruce.”

“Then again, is it even worth it in the modern era? You know, they’ll get it from whatever source they can. God only knows where else he might see it. And he _is_ Robin, you know-- he’s already been exposed to some sordid stuff, and--”

“Master _Bruce_ ,” Alfred said sharply.  
  
Bruce shut up.  
  
“I believe that, in the continued fog of somnolence, your mind has led you to the wrong conclusion.”  
  
Bruce blinked again. God, it was like he could _feel_ the sleep deprivation grating at his corneas. 

“So then what _videos_ has he been watching that you have to bring it up so early? If he’s been crying over those animal rescue videos again, I don’t know what to say because I already told him--”

“Master _Bruce_ , you are correct in that the videos involve animals. However, they are not of the rescued variety. He might have engaged in a bit of tears, but under the circumstances I find it most understandable.”  
  
For a moment Bruce’s mind flipped to the category of ‘snuff films and the sick fucks who make them’. There _were_ animals involved in those horrifying videos sometimes, but it wasn’t as if Dick would actively search out such a thing, and surely as Robin he would have brought it to Batman’s attention, if only to put a stop to it…  
  
“I can see that once again your thoughts have strayed to the gutter, Master Bruce.” It never failed to be impressive how easily Alfred could read him. Maybe Alfred should help out more on the detective side of things.  
  
“If it’s not animal rescue videos and it’s not snuff films, then _what is it_ , Alfred?” 

Again Alfred gave him an imperious look that made Bruce wilt like a frost-touched petunia.  
  
“Master Dick has been mainly preoccupied with videos of the equestrian variety thus far this summer, Master Bruce.”  
  
_Thus far this summer_. It wasn’t saying much, given that they were only about a week into June. Then again, a lack of organized activity and a precocious youth led to wandering minds indeed.  
  
“That’s much better than what I was expecting,” Bruce said. “Thank you for letting me know, but I don’t think that this is a pressing emergency…”

“He was watching videos of vaulting, horse tricks, and other equestrian theatrics.” Bruce stared and Alfred, with an exaggerated slowness, elaborated with, “which, if you are not aware, are key components of any upstanding circus performance.” His voice said that Bruce certainly had _better_ be aware.

And he was. Aware, that was. Of the circus. And circus horses. And not being asleep. And of how much he wanted to be asleep. And then ... aware of something entirely more important.  
  
“Oh, _hell_ , they reminded him of Haly’s, didn’t they?“

“You have grasped the point at last.”

Bruce put his face in his hands, mulling things over. Stubble poked his palms through his callouses. “Poor chum. I bet that made him pretty melancholy. We can take him to the petting zoo? They have ponies…” 

“I believe that would rather be like dangling a carrot before a horse and then pulling it away unjustly.”  
  
He removed his hands from his face, only to stare down at a neglected, and now lukewarm, mug of coffee. It had been moulded, painted, and glazed by Dick in a moment of inspiration for his art class’s penultimate project in April. He had adroit little hands and it was surprisingly nice given that its creator had turned nine just the month before. It had a gray and red bird painted on one side-- a robin. 

“You had to use the horse metaphor.” 

“Indeed sir. Horses have always been an important part of young Master Dick’s life. And I would remind you that this is his first summer since losing his parents. In point of fact, it will be an anniversary on July 4th.”  
  
“I know,” Bruce said miserably. And really, he did, because Bruce would never forget the torrent of tears that had accompanied Dick’s ninth birthday a few months prior. It had been a small affair, just the three of them, and one bite of Alfred’s cake had sent Dick into tears, much to their horror. Through the hyperventilation he’d insisted that it was great-- just the way his _mother_ had made it-- and Bruce had spent half the afternoon wishing to anything and everything that they’d picked a different flavor or that, god forbid, Alfred had baked a more disgusting cake.

“I’m trying, Alfred. I’m really trying to keep him occupied. He already has the library and his gymnastics and Robin, and I’m teaching him to sail on Friday on the lake and I’ve been thinking of more _bonding_ activities we can do now that he’s free all summer… Do you have any suggestions?” Asking Alfred for advice was usually an infallible method for success in all things Dick-related.

“Thank you for asking, and indeed I do. I have already taken steps to rectify the matter. I suggest, however, not informing Master Dick of the solution until things are solidified as we would not wish to cause undue hope or haste.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Alfred. What’s the idea?”  
  
Alfred said, “He is to get a horse, Master Wayne.”

Bruce was _more awake_ , that was true, and he could say without a trace of narcissism that he was smarter than the average idiot. Still though, he took a moment to process, like a motherboard that had gotten bogged down with hair… hair from the four-legged variety of creature… pets. Horses. And then, with all the impact of a straight punch from Superman, it hit. 

“Oh no,” Bruce started. “I would die for that child but we are _not_ becoming _horse people_.” He’d dated (well, dated was perhaps a strong word) a horse girl in college named Vanessa van Heusen and the only two things remarkable about her had been her simply astonishing hip adductor strength, and the way she managed to spend literally all day getting covered in filth at her barn while seeming to enjoy it.  
  
“I think you may have come along too late for that, Master Bruce. As you know, your ancestors have always been great proponents of the sport.” Alfred nodded to the portrait of Nathaniel Wayne hovering over the fireplace. Bruce’s venerable grandfather, whom he’d never actually known, was in a scarlet coat and perched on a leggy bay, surrounded by a pack of spotted hounds with great floppy ears. 

He’d always disliked that portrait.

“Yes, well,” he said, “times change, and I’m sure that foxhunting would only upset Dick more. I mean the foxes are so… cute… with their fangs, and rabies and…” God help him, he had no clue _why_ Dick had such an affinity for all the fauna of the forest and all their communicable zoonotic diseases.

“Foxhunting is not the only equestrian activity. You yourself were a member of the Gotham Valley Pony Club.” As if to be helpful, Alfred then pointed to the photograph on the mantle of a very, very young Bruce Wayne, looking far too precarious on top of an excessively hirsute pony whose expression stated that he not so much hated life itself but rather every other life _form_ in existence.  
  
“I don’t even remember that photo being taken,” Bruce said bluntly, “although I do remember how that _creature_ bit me on the neck.”

“And you were so very desperate,” Alfred said pityingly, with a sidelong glance at Bruce, “to prevent your father from rehoming Sure Shags A Lot. You told him that he had simply tried to ‘vampire’ you.”

“I thought his name was Shaggy,” Bruce said. It was an unsubtle attempt to divert the conversation.

“You did decide on that nickname as it was far easier for you to pronounce, but his registered name remained Sure Shags A Lot. We digress however. You may not remember--”  
  
Oh, Bruce remembered. Just not about the pony. He’d been reading Bunnicula with his mother, which had presumably prompted the idea for Bruce’s simile-cum-plea. It had been 1986, and he’d begged Alfred to sew an elaborate vampire costume quite in advance of Halloween that year, but that had never happened because-- 

“My parents were killed. I don’t remember what happened to that damned pony.”  
  
“After that, you wanted nothing of the sort to do with him. I organized the donation of both their horses, as well as your pony, to a charity fund devoted to equine-assisted therapy for the mentally handicapped. It was the first office of its kind in this area, in fact--”

“Great,” Bruce snapped, getting up from the table. “Thank you for regaling me with all the things my parents did with me before they got murdered, and which I don’t remember in the first place. It’s always a wonderful way to start the morning.”

A bouncy, energetic, athletic bundle of enthusiasm burst his way into the dining room, throwing open the door leading from the hallway and front flipping through the threshold.

“What’s a wonderful way to start the morning?” Dick asked, having stuck the landing perfectly while in socks and in spite of the freshly waxed hardwood floors. He was dreadfully perky given that Bruce had only gotten him to sleep about an hour before he himself had passed out. Nightmares, and bad memories, and--

Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. He seemed to be about to speak.

Bruce thought of Dick’s tears, and his wistful face whenever he spoke about the menagerie of animals at the circus, and the long-empty pastures whose stately brick fencing lined both sides of the estate’s driveway.

He cut Alfred off without delay.

“Guess what, chum. We’re getting you a horse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this fic, I’m using March 21st, 1994 as Dick’s birthday. He is 9 in this chapter, and it’s June 2003 right now. Bruce is 25, and was born in 1978. This might date the fic twenty years from now (if AO3 is still a thing, lol) so I apologize in advance. The pony having the name Sure Shags A Lot is really not too far off from many registered horse names; they are often completely ridiculous and weirdly risqué. At the barn or in casual conversation most horses are called simple nicknames derived from their “show” or registered names though, hence Shaggy.
> 
> Bruce may seem a bit bratty to Alfred here, but remember that he’s only 25 and is still a new parent with Dick. He’s also operating on little sleep and is under a lot of stress.


	2. If You Can't Beat 'Em

A week had passed and Bruce felt as though he were preparing to face every supervillain in Gotham all at once. 

A few days before, Alfred had mentioned a horse training and breeding facility on the outskirts of Gotham. It had a rather impressive lineup of ponies and horses for sale. (“They bred Sure Shags A Lot,” Alfred had mentioned, as if that were some sort of stunning endorsement and not a foretelling of future savagery.) 

Bruce had perused their website upon learning of it, and had subsequently felt more out of his depth than the time he’d been pitched into Gotham Harbor wearing full body armor. He’d long been accustomed to being the resident expert on any topic of interest or importance to him, and this _was_ most definitely important, as it involved Dick’s happiness, but he couldn’t truthfully say it was of much interest. 

He’d clicked cluelessly from picture to picture, reading ads whose descriptions meant nothing to him. Welsh Section B, 13.1 hands, AA circuit, bombproof. Quarab, schoolmaster, packer, first flight. Trakhener, 17.2, hot, Prix-St. George, import. 

(“The head trainer,” Alfred informed him, “used to teach at Morven Park International Equestrian Institute, one of the world’s most prestigious riding institutions.”)

Despite his googling, he felt just as lost as he’d been when Alfred had first ambushed him with the idea. When Alfred called the barn yesterday to schedule a “viewing” for several equine prospects he’d declared promising, Bruce had cringed in the background and reminded himself that this was all for the greater good. 

Now, he and Dick stood in the expansive front entryway of Wayne Manor, waiting for Alfred to bring their most inconspicuous car around the drive.

“I still think you should be wearing something like my outfit.” 

Dick’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Bruce glanced down to the boy standing beside him, who practically vibrated with anticipation. Dick was neatly groomed and dressed in breeches, half chaps, and paddock boots, all things Bruce faintly recalled as instruments of torture that had gone along with Sure Shags A Lot. 

“What’s wrong with this?” 

Alfred had put Bruce in something he’d deemed “casual”-- chinos, a polo, and a pair of loafers. He tugged at the short sleeves of the shirt. He felt weirdly exposed given that in both his day _and_ night-time activities, his arms were always covered. They bore several ragged scars that, with Alfred’s careful application of makeup, were now fairly invisible. He couldn’t do much about the extensive vascularity and musculature that seemed bizarre on the arms of a perennially drunken playboy, but his last alibi of “weight lifting for spiritual enlightenment” had been eaten up by the press. 

“Well, it’s just that you don’t look like you’re going to a barn is all.” 

Bruce smothered a laugh that would have made him sound like a barking dog. “Trust me, chum, not wearing horse clothing isn’t the only thing that’s going to make me out-of-place at a barn.” 

“But Alfred told me you rode horses when you were little. He even showed me pictures of you as a _teeeeeny_ _tiiiiiny_ little kid on that pony who looked really mad all the time.” 

Teeny tiny, his foot. Bruce at age six had been taller and weighed more than Dick did currently. Gymnasts’ bodies were notoriously petite, and neither of Dick’s parents had been large people. In addition, Dick’s inexhaustible energy caused him to race through calories even on days when he didn’t engage in much physical activity. 

And, aha! Bruce was saved from replying by the timely arrival of Alfred in the sleek gray Audi S8. Dick grabbed his hand and tugged him out the door, giving Bruce just enough time to pull it shut and hear the security system beep into operation. 

"Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Dick chanted as they skipped down the stairs. He flung open the rear door to the Audi and tried to push Bruce inside.

“Nope, you first. Booster seat.” 

Dick gave a heavy sigh as he scooted into the car and buckled himself in. “This makes me feel like a baby,” he said. Even his attempt at pouting was unsuccessful as he was still too enthused about their current endeavor to fake a frown. 

Alfred’s voice floated in from the driver’s seat. “It is most tragic, Master Dick, but you shall be freed from this device of woe only when you reach the requisite height of 57 inches.” 

“Cheer up,” Bruce said, as he did up his seatbelt beside Dick. “That’s only another 7 inches to go.” 

“ _Only_ ,” Dick repeated, but his smile spread again as Alfred put the car into gear and they gently cruised down the driveway, the soft purr of the V8 humming along. 

* * *

After about an hour’s drive, they pulled up before a grand facility whose barn must have been half the length of Wayne Manor. The gabled roof reflected the sunlight and in the far distance, acres and acres of green pasture were dotted with horses. 

Dick flew out of the car as soon as the doors unlocked themselves, and Bruce scrambled to get out with him. His shoes crunched in the gravel and, with a hand on Dick’s shoulder, they followed Alfred toward the building. Before they walked much further, a man emerged from around the side of the building.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne,” greeted Mr. Sommers, meeting Bruce’s grip in a firm handshake. He was somber and compact, face weathered by the sun. “Thank you for coming to Verdant Forest Farms.” 

Dick wiggled under Bruce’s hand. “Can we see the horses now?” he blurted. Bruce nudged him. “I mean, I’m sorry, I’m Dick, nice to meet you, can we _please_ see the horses now?”  
  
Mr. Sommers looked at Bruce. “If your guardian agrees, we can set out to look at them.” 

“Yes, of course,” Bruce said. The expression of adoration Dick sent his way threatened to make him feel lightheaded They began to walk into the concrete-floored barn. Its aisleway was perhaps twelve feet across, with stalls on either side. Some were empty, but others contained horses munching contentedly away at hay. The unique smell of _horse_ prickled Bruce’s brain, rooting up fuzzy flashes of memory from long ago. 

They reached an area to the side where a shiny black pony stood, tied in the center of what looked to be a doorless, equine-sized shower stall. Dick shivered with excitement, and Bruce held on to his shoulder firmly to keep him from moving forward. He couldn’t let him just scamper up to the horse. It might… spook. 

“This is the first prospect Mr. Pennyworth and I discussed over the phone.” 

“Ah,” Bruce said helplessly. He had no idea what had been _discussed_ , but it did look vaguely similar to one of the ads he’d seen online. Regardless, Bruce had deliberately left the fine details up to Alfred. 

“Yes, thank you,” his wonderful butler replied, an omniscient font of wisdom as always. “Master Dick, this is Mr. Nickers. He is a Welsh Pony, and he is 9 years old.” 

“Same age as me!” Dick reached up to clutch Bruce’s wrist. “Can I get closer? Please?” 

Bruce looked down at him. Dick’s pleading face was impossible to reject. “Be _careful_ ,” he insisted, reluctantly removing his hand.  
  
Mr. Sommers stepped back to a respectful distance, and Dick slowly moved up to the pony, holding out a hand for him to sniff. Mr… _Nickers_ was rather small as far as equids went, but next to him Dick seemed even tinier than he actually was. Bruce twitched with anxiety.

“We had Welsh Cobs at Haly’s,” Dick said, and _thank god_ his tone was simply reminiscent, not sad. “They performed under harness. Remember, Bruce? With all the feathers on their heads?”  
  
“Yeah, chum, I do,” Bruce said softly. “What do you think about him?” 

Dick hummed. “Of course I’ll have to _ride_ him, but… he has kind eyes.” He pressed his face to the pony’s cheek, and reached up to rub behind one ear. 

Kind eyes. Right. Well, they weren’t dilated due to drug use and didn’t glow like those of some of Batman’s nemeses, so he figured that was a fair point to make. 

“Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sommers? Here are the necessary riding waivers and legal documents.” Alfred reached into his satchel and passed him a manilla envelope. Bruce had found it suspicious that he had to sign a _waiver_ just for Dick to ride a horse. Proof that they were far too dangerous. 

“Of course,” replied Mr. Sommers. “Dick, the appropriate tack for Mr. Nickers is to the left of you. Would you prefer to tack him up, or shall I?” 

“I’ll do it,” Dick peeped happily. 

It was amazing to watch. Dick’s deft hands arranged the saddle blanket, saddle, and girth with speed and familiarity. It was similar to the way Dick behaved on the trapeze-- all muscle memory and swift competence. There was no hesitance or stuttering. He handled Mr. Nickers like an old friend, popping a bit into his mouth with a gentle application of his thumb and then securing the leather and buckles with speed. 

“Helmet please,” he said to Alfred, who subsequently pulled a velvet helmet out of his satchel. A black satin bow was sewn upside-down on the back. Bruce vaguely remembered how it could create a great faux pas on the hunt field if the ribbon were pointed the _right_ way, even though that seemed to be the logical way to put it on.

Dick popped the helmet on and buckled it under his chin. “Mr Sommers,” he said politely, “where is the arena?”

They followed Mr. Sommers out of the barn and came upon a large arena surrounded by wooden fencing. Still holding the reins of the pony, Dick pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, something else Alfred had pulled out of his satchel. 

“Wish me good luck?” he said, craning his neck to look Bruce in the eyes. He looked like one of those bobblehead baseball novelties, head suddenly huge due to the helmet. 

“You’ll do great,” Bruce said. And it was true. He had no doubt in his mind. The fluid way Dick handled the pony and all its accoutrements, the way his posture relaxed and any shadow of sadness fled his expression… it all showed that this was another one of the things Dick felt completely comfortable with. He didn’t have to say it, because it was immediately apparent to all who saw him. 

With that, Mr. Sommers, Dick, and the pony walked into the arena, and Bruce and Alfred found their seats on the wooden bleachers to one side. 

“I can’t believe I’m letting this happen,” Bruce muttered as Dick used the mounting block to gently get up on the pony’s back. He looked even _smaller_ up there, and oh god, his head was so far from the ground. Who would _ever_ let their child on a horse? Had his parents been insane? Had _Bruce’s_ own parents been insane? 

Alfred didn’t look away from Dick in the arena, who was currently adjusting his stirrup leathers, but replied quietly, “I am sure you recognize the intriguing juxtaposition between your approval of his _other_ activities and utter dismay at this one in particular. I would dare to say that the latter is rather less dangerous than the former.” 

That had indeed occurred to Bruce, but he’d been hoping Alfred wouldn’t point it out. “Well, Alfred, it’s the duality of man. The Jungian thing.” He knew he was floundering. Alfred was graceful enough to ignore it. They sat in silence as Dick and the pony began looping around the arena at a walk. After a few minutes, he switched to a trot.

“Mr. Nickers has very nice impulsion,” Alfred said. Okay, Bruce could understand that. Impulsion, as in what propelled boats through the water. The pony could move forward well. 

Then, a bit later, “What nice lateral movement.” Bruce congratulated himself on understanding that too. _Lateral movement_. It seemed plausible. Dick and the pony _were_ moving diagonally in what seemed to be a coordinated and intentional manner. 

After what seemed to be entirely too short of a time period, Dick cued Mr. Nickers into a canter.

“He has his flying changes and they are quite smooth.” 

“Yeah,” Bruce said. Despite (or perhaps because of) his horror, he was paying rapt attention. Yet again he felt astonished by the fluidity and movement Dick displayed. He seemed to be _part_ of the pony, just as he seamlessly became one with the trapeze.

His heart stuttered as they approached a jump. A jump that was, well, _jump-_ sized, not one of the poles he and the pony had trotted over before. He clenched his fists and exhaled deeply as they sailed over it with what seemed to be great ease. 

“What wonderful bascule,” Alfred remarked. In context, the only thing it could mean was “the pony jumps well”, so Bruce didn’t ask him to elaborate. 

After they’d moved into jumping, Bruce found himself too entranced to pay attention to Alfred. As Dick and Mr. Nickers came down the near side of the arena, Dick shot him a smile that felt more blinding than the sun. A sudden paternal urge washed over Bruce-- he’d to do _anything_ to keep him smiling like that. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Dick finally dismounted and walked with Mr. Nickers out of the arena and towards the viewing area. He hadn’t glanced at his watch once. 

Bruce stood up slowly, mindful not to spook the now sweat-covered Mr. Nickers, and basked in Dick’s happiness. “Well,” he said, “what do you think about him?”

Dick licked his lips, glancing at Mr. Sommers and Alfred, and then back to Bruce.

“I… really really like him.” His tone was subdued now, as if… as if he were afraid Bruce would say no. Bruce opened his mouth to reply. 

“Young sir, do you wish to move on to any of the other ponies?” Alfred interjected. Bruce resisted the urge to scowl childishly at his (actually quite reasonable) suggestion. Couldn’t he see how much Dick liked Mr. Nickers? Hell, now _Bruce_ liked Mr. Nickers just because Dick was _so happy_. Anything that could make him smile like that was worth buying a hundred times over.

“If you want Mr. Nickers, we’ll get him today, Dick.” 

“But…” Another nervous glance to Mr. Sommers, who was as stoic as ever.

“But what, chum?” 

Dick shifted. “A horse this nice is going to cost a _lot_ of money, and I don’t really need--” 

“That’s nonsense,” Bruce said simply. In other circumstances he would have felt bad for interrupting him, but this foolishness needed to be nipped in the bud. He remembered now that all the sale ads on the website had stated ‘price upon inquiry’. “Mr. Sommers, how much is Mr. Nickers?” 

Mr. Sommers met his gaze directly and stated, “As of this moment he is priced at $50,000 even.” 

Dick looked like he was going to faint. Bruce’s stomach turned with parental anxiety as he watched Dick's fingers twist the reins. 

“That’s perfectly fine,” Bruce said quickly. “What does his tack cost? I’ll throw in another $10,000 for that and your time.” 

The previously unflappable Mr. Sommers blinked heavily and cleared his throat. “That’s appreciated, Mr. Wayne, but I don’t think an extra $10,000 is necessary.”

“I insist,” Bruce said. “You have been more than accommodating for us.” He looked back at Dick, who was now leaning against the pony’s shoulder and had his face pressed into his neck. He’d taken off his helmet and his once neatly parted hair now looked like an accumulation of sweat-starched tumbleweeds. “Well, Dick, it looks like we’ve got you a pony.” 

Dick murmured, “It’s really nice of you, Bruce, but money isn’t the only thing. I realized it wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Nickers.” 

… Was it really _this hard_ to spoil Dick Grayson? Most children would have been tickled to death at this point. 

“Whyever not, dear boy?” Alfred’s soft voice asked.

Bruce was grateful to him for taking the lead, because he was utterly befuddled. Not fair to the _pony_? He would live in a lavish pasture with fresh, clean running water and have all the love and attention in the world, existing only to eat and hang out with Dick. Seemed like a very ‘fair’ life to him. 

“He’ll be lonely at the manor by himself,” Dick stated, with more confidence. “Horses are herd animals, and I remember how sad the horses at the circus got when they had to be alone. I wouldn’t want anything to feel alone and scared, without any friends.” 

Goddammit. Of course the pony was an analogue to Dick’s early days as an orphan, before Bruce had come into his life. He might not even realize the parallels to his own experiences, but it was plain as day to Bruce. The answer was clear.

“Then we’ll get another horse.” 

“Bruce, no, that's too much--” 

“Mr. Nickers needs a friend,” Bruce said. “I agree. He can’t be all alone. Mr. Sommers, what other horses do you have for sale?” 

Mr. Sommers didn’t respond quickly enough, which made Bruce irrationally impatient.

“I want to buy another horse,” Bruce said, this time in his _Bruce Wayne, CEO_ voice. Nobody ignored that voice. Mr. Nickers would have a friend no matter what the cost. 

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Sommers said. “Well, we have a 10-year-old imported Dutch Warmblood gelding who’s currently a first-flight foxhunter. He’s sturdy enough for a man your size, and he has impeccable bloodlines.” 

“I’ll buy him.” 

“He’s posted for sale at $78,000--”

“I don’t care how much he costs. Will he be nice to Mr. Nickers?” 

“We do not sell horses with bad temperaments.”  
  
“Then it’s settled. Now Mr. Nickers has a friend.” He looked at Dick. “See, everything’s fine. Give the pony back to Mr. Sommers and he and Alfred will iron out the details.” 

A subtle smile had climbed its way back onto Dick’s face as he handed off Mr. Nickers and came back to Bruce. He looked as if he couldn’t quite believe it and Bruce, intent on wiping the doubt off his face, called out to Alfred.

“Alfred, please schedule the delivery of the two as soon as you can arrange it.” Alfred gave him a knowing nod as he continued to speak with Mr. Sommers.

“Hey Bruce,” Dick said suddenly. “Wanna hear something funny?”

“What is it chum?” 

“Did you know that Mr. Nickers’ registered name is Knickers Fall Down?” 

...

“It _what_?!”

Horse people really were lunatics. But-- and Bruce couldn’t believe he was thinking this, even to himself-- as long as it made Dick happy, he didn’t care at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so hard to avoid throwing in an Arrested Development quote in the form of, “It’s a pony, Dick. How much could it cost, $500,000?” Bruce is spending a lotttt more money than he needs to here, but again, he’s accustomed to the best and he certainly isn’t going to skimp when it comes to Dick. (You can get a perfectly fine, simple horse for $2-3K, but it isn't going to be anything fancy.)
> 
> Speaking of pop culture, did anyone pick up on the Full Metal Jacket reference? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all of you and will have another chapter out soon. Now that we’ve got the introduction all set out, we can move on to more fun stuff. Awkward!Bruce will continue being awkward. If you have any comments, I'd love to hear them!


	3. Lovely Leopold

It was 5:30 PM on Friday and Bruce was currently engaged in the dismal practice of trying to get his day’s paperwork done in time to get to a movie showing with Dick that evening at 8:00. It was something called _Finding Nemo_ , and seemed to be about an overprotective single father. Bruce found the topic weirdly apropos. 

Alfred came into the study with the Robin mug full of coffee and set it down on the corner of his desk, then retreated to stand a few feet away. 

“The landscaping team have ensured that all trails on the Manor grounds are clear of brush, stray branches, and other such impediments.”  
  
“I thought they did that anyway,” Bruce replied distantly. Why would his secretary include _her_ secretaries’ schedules for approval? Couldn’t she do that herself? _Didn’t_ she usually do that herself? He glanced at his calendar, which he now realized had a sentence written in glaring red caps: **LUCY OUT OF OFFICE (VACATION TO BALI)** marked over the span of two weeks. It was in his handwriting. When had he written that? When had he been _told_ that? Maybe Alfred was right and the lack of sleep was actually getting to him.

“There are 20 miles of trails on the grounds, sir.” 

“That’s impressive.” Bruce hadn’t ventured out there in literal years, but he did remember that Alfred had dragged him onto the trails often in his preteen years. Something about the “therapeutic nature of the outdoors”. Then high school had come along, followed by college and taking over Wayne Enterprises, and then Batman, and now Dick. Life did fly by. 

“Yes, sir, and, as I am sure you are aware, the property comprises over 3500 acres.” 

“That sure is a lot of space,” Bruce said, while squinting at a spreadsheet that really should have been printed horizontally. Average job satisfaction in WE’s engineering division was up by 5%, with the most growth shown in the environmental engineering department…

“Master Bruce.” 

“Sorry, Alfred. I’m paying attention now.” He put the spreadsheet face-down on the desk in the appropriate pile of reviewed documents. 

“Do you recall how the property is apportioned, sir?” 

Good question. Bruce knew he hadn’t laid foot on every part of the manor’s grounds. He cast back in his mind for the last land survey of Wayne Manor he’d signed off on. It had been done for some tax assessment or other. 

The property had been founded in the early 1700s. Few of the original features remained, save for some crumbling stone walls here and there. It had always been massive, and early on much of the land had been used for farming and horse breeding. Then, further along, Kenneth Wayne bought all the surrounding woodland to be used as grounds for hunting. 

There was the main house itself, the current iteration of which had been built in 1912. It was certainly too large for only three people. Entire wings of the home had remained shut until Dick took it upon himself to explore them. Every so often he came scuttling up to Bruce or Alfred with some old object that he’d found in a back room, wanting to know what it was. Alfred almost always knew the answer, whereas Bruce almost always didn’t. Beneath the house was the massive cave system that made up the Batcave, but that, of course, hadn’t been featured on the assessment.

The gardens surrounded the house, featuring all sorts of perennial things that had been demanded by various Waynes over the span of time. There were plenty of climbing roses, fruit trees, and exotic bushes. The pièce-de-résistance was the massive hedge maze with an impressive statue at the center. Bruce halfway suspected that the hedges moved themselves around on their own will, because every time he entered them it seemed like a new landscape. 

Then there were the stables, the indoor and outdoor arenas, and the accompanying pastures, as well as a large field of natural jumps and ditches. One of Bruce’s earliest memories was of Sure Shags A Lot balking at a log in that field. It couldn’t have been more than a foot and a half high, and his mother had cheered him on from her horse, who had walked over it without a care in the world. 

There was Lake George on the opposite end of the property. It had a boathouse and two docks, and there was a small kidney-shaped island in the middle. That was where, during a campfire, his father had told the story of how the lake was named after Charles Wayne’s terrier, who had drowned in the murky waters after jumping off a boat in pursuit of a particularly tempting otter. He wasn’t sure how true that was, but he did remember how he’d cried at the thought of _Ghost George_ swimming up to their campsite in the darkness. Martha had scolded Thomas thoroughly and let Bruce sleep in their tent even though at the beginning of the night, Bruce had proclaimed that he’d sleep outside under the stars like a pirate.

Then there was the massive forest, which had been under conservation since before Bruce’s time. Through it ran a stream which eventually fed into the aforementioned lake, and there was at least one tree fort which had been derelict even in Bruce’s childhood. It had probably rotted away by now, and if it hadn’t… well, he needed to have it either renovated or destroyed before Dick found out about it. 

And finally, the cemetery, where generations and generations of Waynes had been laid to rest. It was surrounded with wrought-iron fencing and in the center a white marble mausoleum rose up from the ground, overshadowing the graves. Chains shackled the doors together. Bruce had never entered it, and he had no idea where the key was. 

To the left of the mausoleum, under the limbs of a magnolia, laid his parents’ graves. His pilgrimages to visit them had, if anything, become more frequent since he’d taken in Dick. Sometimes he told them about Dick’s antics, other times he mentioned frustrations at WE, and still others he sat with them in silence. Of course, he had never believed that they could hear him, but talking to them anyway was the one small illogicality that he allowed himself. And, if in the course of his work as Batman, he had discovered odd things that didn’t seem strictly natural… and if subsequently there were the slightest chance that they somehow were listening...

He pulled himself out of that train of thought to find Alfred gazing at him expectantly.

“I think I know the layout, although I’m sure you’ve got me beat on the details. What’s this about? Is there something major that needs to be fixed?’

“Sir, the horses are to be delivered tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, I know. I thought you had the groundsmen get everything ready for them in the stables.”

“They did indeed, sir.”

“Okay, is there a problem with the pastures?”

“No, sir. They have been carefully reviewed for holes or any material that might pose a risk. The fences are intact and the pastures clear.”

“The food and supplies came in on time?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Sommers sent over their current feeding plan and everything is in place.”

“And two of the groundsmen have agreed to clean the barn and feed them on schedule?”

“Yes, sir, they had no objections. I took care to ensure that they both were familiar with horses.”

“So…” Bruce rubbed his temple. “I don’t mean to sound rude, Alfred, but I’ve got work to do, and I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Master Dick has already expressed interest in exploring the trails with Mr. Nickers.” 

“Well, yes,” Bruce said. “I’m glad he’ll be spending time with him. That’s what I bought him for. And that’s what you do with horses. Ride them.”

Alfred intensified his stare. 

“Sorry… that was sarcastic. In any case, what’s the problem with him wanting to ride on the trails?”

“Surely you do not believe that young Master Dick should be riding out onto the grounds _alone_.” 

In fact, Bruce had not thought that far ahead.

There _were_ plenty of wild animals, although none of them should pose a threat to Dick, whose nightlife featured greater dangers than a hormone-addled buck, but... Mr. Nickers might turn out to be a coward, a traitor, or both. With a simple rear he could throw Dick off his back and canter off into the great blue yonder. What if he hit his head and lost consciousness? Or broke a bone? And besides all that, the trails were labyrinthine at times, and Dick had never been out there before.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, surely he can just stay in the arena until we figure it out. Plenty more to practice on. There’s lots of… jumps.” 

“Master Bruce, it will be impossible to keep that boy from venturing out onto the trails. As his guardian, you must join him. Think of it as a helpful addition to your currently rather lacking list of ‘bonding activities’.” 

“I don’t have a horse,” Bruce threw back smugly, “and if I went along with them on foot I’m sure they’d die of boredom staying at a walk for me to keep up.”

“Pardon me the correction, but you do have a horse, sir.”

The hair on the back of Bruce's neck raised. 

“No, no, no, Mr. Nickers has a _friend_. I explicitly bought Leopold as a _friend_.”

(When Bruce had signed off on the purchase papers, he’d been relieved to see that the second horse had a normal name. It had made the idiocy of ‘Knickers Fall Down’ slightly more bearable.)

“You will be interested to know that, in addition to being suited as Mr. Nickers’ companion, Leopold is the perfect mount for a gentleman rider such as yourself. He has the requisite training, abilities, and substance and is, dare I say, quite a handsome horse.”

Alfred, as always, had a point. A very sharp point that had pierced Bruce’s gauzy excuses like a Batarang going through the Joker’s ridiculous suit. 

“Well,” Bruce began, “I don’t have any clothes for riding, and I’m so busy with patrol, and Dick, and Wayne Enterprises, I don’t know where I’d find time to go shopping--” 

“We have a full wardrobe of equestrian clothing for you, in fact, sir.” 

There were disadvantages to Alfred knowing every inch of Bruce’s measurements. He could picture it now-- a stuffy velvet helmet that absorbed sweat, leather boots that rubbed the back of his heels raw, foppish breeches that left entirely too little to the imagination...

“When did you order them?” Bruce asked bleakly. The escape routes were narrowing. 

“I believe it was the day prior to our initial discussion about purchasing Master Dick a horse. I was in the process of ordering his, and decided it was in the interest of efficiency to order yours simultaneously.” 

Typical Alfred. He had a Riddler-like ability to predict every one of Bruce’s decisions, even when Bruce himself hadn’t thought of it yet. Especially as a teenager, he’d been in the habit of swearing up and down about how he’d never do such-and-such or so-and-so. On the occasion that he ended up changing his mind about it, it seemed as though Alfred had known all along and had a plan in place from the start.

What did that say about Bruce’s current resistance? 

Time for the next tactic. “I’m sure I’ve lost the ability to ride. In fact, I seem to remember that I constantly fell off Shaggy.” 

Alfred inclined his head. “That may have been in part due to… Sure Shags A Lot’s temperament. Regardless, you never permitted his bucking fits to discourage you from riding. You were quite determined to get back on him each time you went flying off.” 

_Flying_ off? And Alfred had donated that pony to a facility for handicapped kids? God, it was a wonder they hadn’t been sued. 

“That doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t ridden a horse since I was 8. I’ll have _no_ idea what I’m doing. I already get injured enough as Batman. I don’t need to have my skull cracked open by a stray hoof.” 

“Never fear, Master Bruce. Leopold is an experienced foxhunter and has quite a benign temperament. It is unlikely that he would cause you to fall, whether out of malice or fear. Regarding your current lack of instruction, I myself have long held an A-level certification from the Pony Club, their highest honor.” Alfred stopped talking and looked at Bruce calmly. It meant he had to respond.

“That’s great, Alfred, but you haven’t ridden since my parents died either.” 

“Knowledge,” Alfred blinked sagely, “does not fade in the same manner as muscle memory.” 

Bruce took a deep breath and stared up at the 12-foot ceiling of his home office. It was, as ever, perfectly dusted and the oak heartwood beams gleamed with wax.

“Are you saying that you want to… coach me?”

“You’ve got it in one, sir.” 

“That’s…” he exhaled until not an iota of breath was in his lungs, then inhaled again. “That is.... I can’t see a way of getting out of this. You’ve boxed me in.” 

“Perfectly correct, sir.” 

He resisted the childish urge to spin in his executive chair, and instead busied himself with sorting through the paperwork that he’d spent the entire conversation doing. This was purely for show and he knew that Alfred knew that he knew that Alfred knew it. 

Bruce was man enough to admit defeat. Continuing further would be like trying to win an arm-wrestling contest with Clark. Perhaps he could make a few valiant efforts on Leopold, prove his total incompetence, and then be let free from Alfred’s spiderweb of treachery. 

“When do we start?” 

* * *

The horses arrived before noon the next day, and after they’d been sequestered into the pasture nearest the barn, Bruce and Dick sat on the stone fencing, observing them. 

Mr. Nickers and Leopold, being from the same facility, seemed to be already familiar with each other, and their transition to their new home had been free of any snorting, whinnying, or equine posturing. In fact, they had each wandered off to their own devices in the pasture. Mr. Nickers was occupied with something called a Jolly Ball, swinging it around by the handle using his teeth, while Leopold had his head down, hoovering up the grass with gusto. 

A few minutes before, Alfred had come down in a golf cart to bring them a cooler chest with two servings of his homemade turtle tracks ice cream. Bruce had waited until Alfred whirred away and then surreptitiously scooped his portion into Dick’s bowl, getting a mischievous smile in return. They were breaking Alfred’s rules, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Turtle tracks was Dick’s favorite flavor, and he could use the calories, anyway.

It was a beautiful day, breezy and temperate, with a few fluffy clouds wandering the sky. It was warm enough to bask in the sun like a lizard, but not so warm that it became uncomfortable after a while. 

Bruce nudged Dick’s knee with his own. “Aren’t you going to ride today?” 

Dick shook his head, spoon of ice cream in his mouth. “No,” he said around it. “You have to give them a few days to adjust. Otherwise they could colic. Moving is stressful for a horse.” 

“Ah,” Bruce said. He’d never moved once in his life, so he would have to take Dick’s word on it. The horses seemed happy enough though, tails swishing lazily as they meandered around. 

“... Bruce?” 

“Yeah, chum?” 

“I know I’ve said it before, but… thank you.” He pressed his face against Bruce’s side, and Bruce wrapped an arm around him. 

“You deserve to have a horse,” he replied. “They’ve always been part of your life and that doesn’t have to change now. In fact, we should have gotten you one earlier.” 

“Well, I’m grateful for Mr. Nickers, but also… even more grateful for everything else. You took me in, and gave me a home, and you and Alfred have always been so nice to me, and I have everything I need, and--” 

Bruce’s heart quivered in his chest. 

“That’s what parents do, Dick,” he said softly. “It’s their responsibility. You don’t have to thank me for that.” 

“I still feel lucky,” Dick said. “Even though so much bad has happened… I still feel lucky that I have you.” 

Bruce was motionless for a moment, then hugged Dick tighter against him. 

“Me too, chum. Me too.” 

* * *

Tuesday afternoon came and with it, Alfred’s first scheduled ‘coaching session’. Bruce had put on the requisite polo and breeches, noting that at least the breeches weren’t skin-tight. In fact, they were looser than the Batsuit. That made things slightly better. He had always found clingy clothing to be awkward. Perhaps this discomfort was due to his constant mauling by the news media, but regardless he didn’t need the entire world to know whether he dressed left or right. 

Bruce ventured into the tack room, where Alfred stored his and Dick’s helmets, along with the seemingly innumerable amount of things that went along with horse ownership. Brushes and leather cleaner and fly spray and saddles and saddle pads and breastplates and bridles and so on and so forth ad nauseum. Mr. Nickers’ grooming products were gone; Dick was currently engaged in giving his pony the world’s longest and most indulgent bath. 

Clothing hung in one corner of the room. They weren’t his-- had Alfred put Dick’s riding clothes here for some reason? No, he realized, stepping closer to them. They were dusty and stiff. They must have been here for years, and besides, these were adult clothes. Some were clearly for a woman, and others sized for a man. 

They must have been his parents’. Apparently they’d been skipped over when the barn had been cleaned out. 

Without thought, Bruce reached out and grabbed a black hunt coat from the rack. Dust fell off the shoulders with the movement, like snow tumbling off the branch of a pine tree. He searched the sleeves for clandestine spiders, and then tugged his father’s coat on. 

Calling it ‘tight’ would have been generous. His father had been roughly Bruce’s height but there was a significant difference in their musculature. It wouldn’t close over his chest. He tried to roll his shoulders forward and heard a thread pop. Before he ruined it any further, he pulled it off and hastily shoved it back onto the hanger, then into the corner whence it came. 

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice called from behind him. Bruce didn’t _start_ , because he was Batman and thus didn’t get _startled_ , but he did feel a frisson of surprise run down his spine. Damn that distracting coat. 

“It’s nothing, Alfred. I was just… looking at these old clothes.” And that was all they were. Moth-eaten and stiff, smelling of dust and almost two decades of neglect. They were cluttering up the place, really. Why were they still here?

Alfred stepped into the room and reached out to the coat on the rack. He tugged at the cuff and smoothed out a wrinkle, which sprung back to life as soon as he removed his hand. 

“Leopold is saddled and ready for you, sir.” 

“Alright,” Bruce sighed, casting a last glance at the clothing.. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Alfred handed him a helmet, which was, as he’d expected, a velvet monstrosity. He obediently snugged it over his head and buckled it under his chin. It was far heavier than the cowl. Next he was handed Leopold’s bridle, thick padded leather with what he hoped was a gentle bit. No need for the horse to suffer due to his equestrian inadequacies. 

Alfred noticed his gaze and supplied, “The bit is a Herm Sprenger french link snaffle on a loose ring, sir. Very gentle and perfect for a well-trained, responsive horse.” 

They reached Leopold in the crossties. Bruce was a fairly tall man, at 6’2”, but Leopold’s shoulder stood a couple of inches above his eye level. Then there was Leopold's head, which rose high into the air like that of a giraffe. 

He reached up to the top of the horse’s neck, and Leopold lowered his head obediently so he could easily remove the halter.

Huh. Well that was useful.  
  
Shaggy had been impossible to bridle. He refused to open his mouth and would throw his head skyward at the mere sight of a bit. Martha had humored Bruce the first few times, bridling Shaggy herself, but eventually the responsibility had fallen to Bruce. He’d worked smarter, not harder, and realized that if he disguised the bit under a handful of grain, the greedy little pony would open his mouth before he realized the deception. Worked every time. 

Leopold… did not pull any such tricks. Bruce held out the bridle, spreading the bit with one palm and holding the crown with his other hand. He held it under Leopold’s mouth and the horse accepted it into his mouth easily, not complaining as Bruce moved his ears for the crown piece to pass over. 

Was it this easy? Shaggy really had been a hellion. Bruce adjusted the rest of the bridle without a word of interference from Alfred, which was high praise indeed. 

With both Leopold and Bruce ready, they set off towards the arena, Alfred in the lead. They went in and Alfred closed the gate before gesturing to the mounting block in the center. 

“Up you go, sir.” 

“He’s not going to move?” He hated to sound insecure, but it was better than tumbling onto his ass. That had been another of Shaggy’s favorite moves: wait until young Bruce was attempting to mount, and bolt away at the most opportune moment. 

“He shall not, sir.”

Bruce stepped up onto the mounting block, feeling like a crewmember being forced onto the gangplank. He reached out, put his left hand on the pommel of the saddle, left foot into the stirrup, and… there he went, swinging up into the saddle without utter disaster. The entire time, Leopold had remained absolutely motionless. 

“Okay,” he said, gathering the reins. “What am I supposed to do now?” 

“Walk on, sir.” 

That, he could do. Even a sack of potatoes could just _sit_ while the horse walked. And he even remembered that to get the horse to move, he should click his tongue and… there! Leopold began to walk forward. 

“Where exactly are you intending to go, sir? If you guide him into the wall of the arena it shall be a very short ride indeed!” 

Bruce obediently tugged the rein to the right and Leopold began to follow the line of the arena. His ears flicked back and forth, alternatively paying attention to Bruce and then to Alfred, who was rather more lively than usual. 

He and Leopold did a few laps around the arena going clockwise, and then Alfred instructed him to switch directions via a figure-8 loop across the arena. Alright, changing direction just meant tugging on the appropriate rein. Like parachuting with the toggles.

Leopold obediently pulled away from the arena wall and headed towards the center where Alfred stood. As they passed him, Leopold began to bend slightly for the arena wall. 

“Ride straight into the curve, sir!” 

Well, what the hell did that mean? Bruce swung his head to scowl at Alfred. “Which one is it, Alfred? Straight or curved?” Leopold began to bend even more, pulling off the rail and moving back towards the center of the arena. 

“Don’t look at me, sir, look at where you’re going!” 

Bruce bit back an inappropriate reply, and returned to looking at the trail of hoofprints he and Leopold had beaten into the sand along the rail. The horse went back to hugging the arena wall.

“Good, sir! Don’t forget to keep contact with the reins! And grip with your legs!” 

It was like rowing, Bruce thought. Keep a grip on the oar but also move with the water, all the while using the legs too. Leopold obliged to the request, putting his head more on the vertical and step becoming springier. 

It was almost meditative. Leopold seemed able to read his mind. When Bruce tilted his head to the left, Leopold began to bend that way, and if he shifted his weight slightly, Leopold responded by moving laterally away from the direction of pressure. 

Perhaps he had bought a psychic horse. 

Leopold moved like a dancer across the arena. Even when his hooves met the ground, he seemed to skate gracefully across the sand, never stuttering or losing rhythm. Bruce thought back to Sure Shags A Lot, whose every step had seemed to be perfectly calculated to send his young rider jolting into the stratosphere. This was… pleasantly different. 

He’d been lost in the horse’s movement when he heard a familiar voice say, “He’s not _so_ terrible, Alfred.” 

So Dick had finished with Mr. Nickers, huh? Despite himself, Bruce felt embarrassed. Here he was, in front of his 9-year-old child, looking like an idiot who didn’t know left from right as he fumbled with this massive horse. 

He resisted the urge to look to the center of the arena. It would only cause Alfred to berate him again for “looking away from the direction of movement”. Alfred and Dick continued a whispered conversation, upon which he had no desire to eavesdrop. Let them keep their equine secrets. 

After a while, Alfred called out, “That is enough, sir! You’ve done your due diligence for the day.” 

Weird. Bruce hadn’t even been thinking of when it would end. 

He guided Leopold to the mounting block and swung down ( _without_ busting his ass, thank you), and gazed at his horse, who had scarcely broken a sweat. Leopold met his gaze and huffed slightly, as if to agree that the ride was indeed over. 

“Good boy,” he said, patting him on the neck. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Dick and Alfred give each other a smug look. “Thank you for the lesson, Alfred.”

“Not at all, sir.” 

With that, he and Leopold headed for the arena’s gate, Alfred trailing behind and Dick skipping alongside. They reached the barn and he put Leopold in the crossties, beginning to untack him. The horse solicitously lowered his head once more when Bruce went to remove the bridle and put back on his halter.

“As I had already assured you,” Alfred said, “Leopold is a wondrously patient and forgiving horse. I do remember your hesitance in believing that he would behave better than Sure Shags A Lot.” 

“A wild zebra would have behaved better than that damn pony,” Bruce muttered. He put the saddle on the nearby rack and reached for a curry comb to rub away the sweat marks that had formed under the saddle.

Silence fell, and Bruce felt obliged to say something else. “I’m happy that he has a normal name. Although I can’t say that I feel like an expert yet.” 

“It's okay,” Dick said solemnly. “Everyone’s a beginner at some point.” 

He _might_ have taken some comfort in that if it hadn’t come from a 9-year-old. Dick gazed up at him with big blue eyes the color of an indigo night. Bruce felt uneasy. Something was coming. 

“So,” Dick chirped, “Alfred said you would take me out on the trails?” 

God, he was so fucked. 

“Ah, yes, about that…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so much fun here with Leopold’s name, because he is a breed whose registry has very strict naming guidelines. They have to be less than 20 characters and begin with a certain letter depending on the year of birth (L for 1993). Plus, I feel like Bruce would refuse to call the horse anything ‘silly’ anyway. 
> 
> You may have picked it up, but Alfred has been the mastermind behind all this from the start. He knew they couldn’t have just one horse, and had already spoken with Mr. Sommers about Leopold. Alfred is the true genius of the household. 
> 
> I’ll have the next chapter out within a couple of days. One more chapter to this fic, and then we'll move on to the next in the series! I binge-wrote this, so if you notice any typos or errors, please let me know. :) Comments always loved!


	4. You Can't Help Being An Idiot

It was nearing July 4th and with it, the anniversary of the Graysons’ deaths. 

Dick hadn’t mentioned it, but he didn’t need to. Both Alfred and Bruce were painfully aware of it, and so had been plotting together for quite a while in order to come up with something that would distract Dick from the pain of the day. Distract, not eliminate. Bruce knew from experience that some things never stopped hurting. 

They couldn’t outright say, “Hi, chum. We love you very much and want you to be happy. Soon it’ll be a year since that horrible tragedy with your parents happened and you became an orphan; what would you like to do to make that anniversary slightly less miserable?” First, it was insensitive beyond belief, and second, Dick would deny any and all special treatment on the basis that it would be “too much” and that he “didn’t need it". 

They’d been scheming about this idea since before the topic of horses had even become a twinkle in Bruce’s eye, and it had been a long process of elimination.

Cookouts traditionally went along with July 4th, but Dick had been watching those animal rescue videos and thus had resolutely sworn off meat for the foreseeable future. Bruce didn’t like it; it was hard enough keeping weight on Dick _without_ eliminating an entire food group. Still, he had to respect it. They got their meat locally, from farms that Alfred himself had vetted, and maybe one day that fact would win him over. For now, though, he and Alfred conceded without remarking about it. They needed to ensure Dick’s happiness first. They could fuss over his protein intake later. And of course, cakes were right out. They’d learned their lesson earlier in the year. Bruce didn’t care if Alfred never made a cake again, as long as it kept Dick from crying the way he had on his birthday. 

Having friends come over? Friends from where? He’d been homeschooled until the start of the spring semester at Gotham Academy. Bruce understood better than anyone how difficult it could be to attend school as a highly publicized orphan, but they couldn’t homeschool him forever and Alfred had advised that the longer they shielded him, the more difficult it would be to adjust. Dick came from a culture that couldn’t have been more different than that of Gotham Academy, and the first few weeks of attendance had been accompanied by a glum-faced silence that nearly drove Bruce to pull him out, despite Alfred’s insistence. Dick wasn’t being shunned or made fun of-- Bruce had made _sure_ of that via frequent and deliberately intimidating conversations with the school staff-- but he was by nature an extremely social child and that didn’t mesh with the reserved attitudes of the children of Gotham’s elite. Whenever his doubts fired up, Alfred reassured him that social difficulties were a normal part of development and even more so in the case of childhood trauma. So no, Dick didn’t have any invitable friends from Gotham Academy, and even if he did, surely he wouldn’t want to be around them on such a morbid day. 

Leaving the manor for the 4th of July was practically begging for Dick to have a panic attack. He was a brave child, but he still didn’t like going into large crowds or being in situations where he might be separated from Bruce. Bruce didn’t mind; even as Robin, Dick never ventured more than a minute or so away, and even that was usually because Batman had sent him to a safe vantage point. He hadn’t yet taken Robin into the really dangerous parts of Gotham, and never engaged an enemy that was likely to leave him injured while Dick was out with him. He’d have done the same even if it weren’t for Dick’s history; its presence just made Bruce twice as determined to prevent him from seeing too much too soon. 

And so, as the number of days in June dwindled down, Bruce found himself sitting with Alfred at a picnic table underneath one of the barn’s shade trees. It was a beautiful day and all seemed good with the world. Bruce had one of Alfred’s delightful mint juleps at hand and they both gazed fondly at Dick, who was in the near distance teaching Mr. Nickers how to bow. Every time Mr. Nickers inched lower to the ground, Dick gave effusive applause and presented the pony with a cookie. (“Ponies,” he’d supplied helpfully, “get fat really easily. That’s why he gets the diet treats and not the good stuff.”) 

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” 

Alfred looked at him placidly and said, “Whatever do you mean, sir?” 

“The horses. You had to have been planning it for a while now.” He took a sip of his mint julep. It was delicious-- just the right amount of mint to give it a zippy taste that felt refreshing even in the heat of late June. 

“I don’t wish to call it a ‘plan’, sir. That implies a certain degree of manipulation. I simply unveiled the boy’s yearning for an equine companion and iterated the facts surrounding the situation. You made all the decisions, in the end.” 

“I guess,” Bruce sighed, swatting at a fly that had been circling his mimosa. “I probably never would have thought of it if you hadn’t pointed it out. Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough for him.” 

“Sir, I believe that you’d do _anything_ for that boy.” 

“I would,” Bruce admitted plainly. “It’s just a matter of knowing what he needs.”

When he’d first made the adoption offer to Dick, he’d envisioned a life that was much unchanged: Alfred would feed the boy and set up school and extracurricular activities, while he would keep on with his daily (and nightly) routine, occasionally attending a guardian-required activity here and there to keep up appearances. Bruce had been 8-years-old and recently orphaned once, and it had been hard enough letting _Alfred_ act in loco parentis. He’d assumed that Dick would be the same as he’d been: guarded, angry, and too stubbornly held in the memory of the past to accept any new parental figure, especially if they'd been a complete stranger. 

He’d been so damn wrong. He’d known it almost immediately, standing in the grand foyer of the Solomon Wayne Courthouse with Alfred after the judge had approved the adoption proceedings. The social worker let go of Dick’s hand, and the boy came towards him with a hesitant smile. Bruce acted by autopilot, bending down to one knee. Then thin arms wrapped around his neck, and he heard a voice in his ear whisper, “Thank you very much for adopting me, Mr. Wayne.” 

Life had never been the same since. 

Bruce looked back to Dick, who had put away the cookies and was now trying to tempt Mr. Nickers with handfuls of grass instead. Maybe the pony had run out of allotted treat calories for the day. He didn’t seem too impressed with Dick’s handpicked offerings, instead opting to eat the grass that _hadn’t_ been contaminated by a 9-year-old’s inevitably grubby fingers. 

He was so happy with Mr. Nickers, happy in a way that Bruce had never seen before. And here, out in the sun, with the trees blowing all around, and Leopold watching them from across the fence with perked ears, inspiration struck.

“I have an idea,” Bruce said. “For July Fourth, he and I will go on a trail ride together.” 

The corners of Alfred’s lips turned up in a smile. “You will need to practice on Leopold intensely in the coming days.” 

Bruce smiled back. 

“Like you said: I’d do _anything_ for that boy.” 

* * *

The next day, Alfred woke Bruce at a disgustingly early hour, marched him out of bed, and stuffed him into a set of riding clothes. He was being press-ganged out the door before he found himself coherent enough to understand what was happening. 

“I said I’d do anything for him, Alfred, but you could have let me sleep in a little later…”

Alfred shoved a travel mug of coffee in his face as they hopped aboard the golf cart. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. 

“Today the real work begins, sir.” 

Bruce took a sip and burned his tongue on the coffee, sourly wondering what the last lessons had been if not _work_. 

He’d soon find out. 

Alfred forced him to grab Leopold from the pasture, which was a mighty trek through tall grass in the dim pre-dawn light. The horses had chosen the very farthest corner of the pasture to hide out, and he was wide awake by the time he’d haltered Leopold and walked him back to the barn. 

Next came grooming. It seemed that no matter how long he brushed, there was an endless supply of dirt to come off the horse. The dust became finer and finer, kicking up into the air until he looked at Alfred in dismay and was given a slight nod in approval. On to other things. 

Bent over a hoof and attempting to pick it out, Bruce said, “I’m not complaining, really, but don’t we _pay_ people to do this?”

Alfred’s prim British accent floated into his ears. “Sir, I do not understand the question and I will not respond to it.” 

The blinding glow of the barn’s interior lights had given him a headache, but soon Leopold stood before them, tacked up and as docile as ever. 

“Am I done?” Bruce asked tiredly. 

“Are you _done_?” Alfred’s voice soared in surprise. “Do you think that I woke you at this hour only to have you tack the horse and then leave?!”

Alfred directed him out of the stable and into the lighted arena, where he made Bruce hop on and showcase his (limited) riding ability. Walk, change direction, walk some more, go in circles, change to a trot, attempt to manage a canter, slow back down, more circles…

Once the sun rose enough to clearly see the lay of the land, Alfred ordered him to ride Leopold out into one of the empty pastures.

“We shall now practice stopping him,” he said by way of explanation. 

Thus began what seemed to be an endless ritual of walking forward, stopping, walking forward, trotting, stopping, and an increasingly dull mix of the three. Bruce was bored. Leopold was surely even more bored. Finally, he slumped in the saddle and released the reins. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got this by now, Alfred.”

At that exact moment, Leopold plunged his head down into the foot-high grass. Before Bruce could snatch them, the reins had slid halfway down his neck.

Alfred coughed delicately. “You were saying, sir?” 

“What I meant to say is that…” He clenched his hands, trying to calculate the best way to retrieve the reins without looking like a buffoon. “Well, this is certainly different than being in the arena.” 

“Why of course, Master Bruce. The arena features far fewer distractions, and the grass this time of year _is_ quite lush.” 

“I thought you said he was the perfect horse,” Bruce grumbled. He peered down Leopold’s long, long neck and watched with dismay as the reins slipped further towards his ears, which were twitching happily as he cropped the grass with gusto. 

“Come now, Master Bruce. You can hardly complain when you’re allowing him to do it. You must maintain pert posture and steady rein contact even when not moving.” 

Why did the word ‘pert’ sound so dirty? It might have something to do with how Selina had recently described herself as his “purrt and purrky” counterpart. He couldn’t disagree with the pert and perky part, as he did in fact have working eyes. The rest, though?... It wasn’t his fault that they seemed to run into each other every other night he went on patrol. 

“Are you going to do anything to rectify the current state of affairs, sir, or do you plan to spend the rest of the day atop Leopold as he gorges himself on grass? I must remind you that your breakfast will be ready at nine'o'clock this morning; please do inform me if you plan to be tardy or otherwise obliged.” 

Bruce found himself smothered under his own pride, damaged though it might be. He was not going to ask for help. He was a grown man, a billionaire, a CEO, and _Batman_. He could handle getting the reins back. 

Alfred watched him as he attempted to lean all the way down Leopold’s neck, but even Bruce’s arms were no match for its length. His fingers scrabbled vainly a few inches behind Leopold’s ears, and no matter how far he stretched it seemed as though the reins were just out of reach. 

This was humiliating. 

“Reins, Leopold!” 

The horse did not give him the reins. 

“Stop eating!” 

If anything, Leopold increased his rate of consumption.

“Head up!” 

Leopold’s head shot up so suddenly that he almost knocked Bruce right in the forehead. The reins fell back down to his hands, which clutched onto them with all their considerable grip strength.

“So Alfred,” he said, trying to ignore the ignominy of the past few minutes, “am I cleared for takeoff?” 

* * *

Batman crouched on the edge of a multi-story storage building in east Gotham, watching about a dozen men scurrying down below. They were taking boxes from their storage unit and loading them up into three large white vans. They’d finished with the first and were now beginning to load the second. The van’s frame sunk lower and lower to the ground with each new round of boxes.

He’d taken advantage of Robin’s absence to target some heavier crime. These goons were moving goods for Two-Face, including automatic receivers for a variety of firearms. He had it on good authority that they were to be driven further north, to the street gangs who lived in cities less rotten than Gotham and therefore had to outsource their firearm supply. If he could intercept them leaving Gotham, that would be one less thing for the police to deal with later. 

Meanwhile, the Penguin had a bank heist planned later in the week. If he had the opportunity tonight, he’d address that issue preemptively, but right now he was focused on the firearms. If he didn't manage to avert the bank robbery in time, he’d have to warn Catwoman-- no need for her to get caught in the crossfire. She had a soft spot for the jewels often found in security deposit boxes, and despite her supposed “nine lives” he’d rescued her more than once when she’d been up to her usual tricks and something more violent suddenly burst onto the scene. Four times, if he was the one counting-- she insisted on only twice. He wouldn’t condone any type of crime, but at least her thievery targeted those who could afford it, and so they had a relationship that could be varyingly defined as ‘flirtatious’ on her part and ‘exasperated’ on his. 

This behavior extended outside of their secret identities. He’d been shocked the first time he’d heard Catwoman’s distinct voice at a gala, and spun around only to see a gorgeous woman with very, very expensive jewelry and a glass of prosecco. Their eyes met, and to the outside observer it must have looked very much like flirting, but rather was a battle of the wills to see who would look away first.

He’d lost. 

There was a series of celebratory hoots and hollers from the group of men below. Someone came out of the storage unit weighed down by a 36-pack of Bud Lite. The first man to reach him helped him set it down, then tore open the case. He grabbed a can and punctured the side with a pocket knife before chugging it.

“Hey,” one of them said, “if we’re sober by the time old Harv sees us tomorrow, then it means we were sober all night, right?” 

God, it was like watching a college frat party, except thrown by heavily armed felons. He couldn’t object, though; if they wanted to get tipsy, it made everything easier for him. 

“You’d think they’d drink something trashier,” a voice interjected. “I was expecting Natty Lite, but it looks like these guys have chosen the beer of dads everywhere.” 

Speak of the devil. 

“What are you doing here,” he said. It wasn’t a question because he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.

“Nice to see you too,” Catwoman said. “You’re such a charmer, always knowing how to greet a lady.” 

Bruce grunted. 

She sat down next to him, long legs folding easily despite the tightness of her suit. “ _So_ , I heard dear Robin has gotten himself a horse.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gruffed. He gave her a grudging glance and... was the zipper to her suit always down that far? Surely showing that much skin posed a hazard. He could understand a need for airflow, but… _Jesus_. Chivalrously, he turned his eyes back to the road beneath him. 

“Nice try, but he told me the other night. He even gave him a codename for the field: Black Beauty. I think it’s cute.” 

Did the ridiculous names ever end?

“Yes, well. He needed something to keep him busy this summer.” 

“Speaking of, where _is_ he tonight?” 

“I told him he could either ride... _Black Beauty_... this evening or come on patrol with me tonight. Not both. He needs rest.”  
  
“He is a growing boy,” Selina agreed. “But maybe you should take some of your own advice. Lack of sleep makes your skin puffy, you know.” 

Bruce resisted the urge to touch his cheek. 

“Anyway, I just thought I’d mention that I’m proud of you for picking up a new hobby. It must be difficult to have your apprentice outshine you for once.” 

She wasn’t talking about gymnastics.

“He _told_ you?!” 

She giggled. “Actually, no, he’s quite loyal. He didn’t mention a thing about you. I figured it out on my own. And your reaction just now gave me all the verification I needed.” 

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. “You’ve discovered my biggest secret. I’m not an expert at horseback riding.” 

“I could teach you some things about riding,” she said. “It’s all about the hip motion and what you do with your hands.” 

“Stop being lewd.” 

“I’m serious, you know. When I was younger I used to ride quite regularly. Then Catwoman happened, and… time became not so free. But I’m willing to make time for _you_ , Batman.” 

Was everyone he knew actually a covert equestrian? 

He tried to imagine Orin on a horse and failed. But then… hadn’t he at one point ridden a giant seahorse? Yes, actually, and he’d gotten no end of grief in the tabloids. But he had to be the only one… right?

No, he realized. 

Diana had plenty of horses back on Themyscira; Clark had grown up on a farm in Bumfuck Egypt; god only knew what kind of creatures passed for ‘horses’ on Mars but he was sure J’onn had experience with them; Hal could just make himself a green horse and gallivant across the universe; and Barry… well, that was a comfort, because there was no way that a horse would ever tolerate that much hyperactivity. 

Now he felt faintly superior. He had managed his way into the heretofore-unknown Equestrian Club for Heroes, which seemed to be rather like Fight Club, in that no one mentioned it and all its members were secret. 

“Batman,” sang Selina. “Cat got your tongue?” 

He blinked. The thugs had nearly finished loading the third van. 

“I’m about to head to work,” he said. “Bother me later.” 

“Oh, Batman,” she said sweetly, “seeing you is never a bother.” 

He didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, he leapt off the edge of the building and soared down into the night.

* * *

  
July 4th came quickly. It was forecast to be another gorgeous day: low humidity, nice breeze, and just enough cloud cover to keep things comfortable. 

Normally Bruce ate early enough that he was long gone to work by the time Dick woke up, but this morning he and Alfred had colluded to have a proper ‘family’ breakfast. Still, he’d shuffled downstairs slightly earlier than was called for, hoping to get enough coffee into his system that he’d seem somewhat presentable for the important day ahead. 

He’d had his first cup and the usual morning conversation with Alfred. It consisted mostly of grunts on his part, but Alfred always seemed to appreciate the effort. He must have made the coffee very strong this morning, as Bruce was feeling _not_ exhausted by the time Dick scampered into the informal breakfast nook. 

“Good morning, Master Dick.”  
  
“Hi Alfred,” Dick said. “What’s for breakfast?” 

“For you, young sir, I have prepared a spiced apple compote with steel-cut oats.” 

Dick sat down at the small table in his customary spot to Bruce’s right. “Hi Bruce,” he said. “Happy July 4th.” 

“Chum,” Bruce started. 

Dick shook his head. “I know, Bruce. Can we just not? Can we have a normal day?” 

Taken aback, Bruce nodded. “We’ll do whatever you want.” 

The boy in question snorted. “So you mean it’s _not_ going to be a normal day?” Thankfully, his tone was amused rather than surly. This child was amazing. Waking up with a brave face on today of all days…

“I was thinking,” Bruce said carefully, “that we’d do something we’ve never done before.” 

“Reveal our identities to the whole wide world?” he teased.

Despite himself, Bruce shivered. “Err, no, but I think it’s even better. How would you like to go out on the trails today with me? On the horses.” 

Dick put his spoon into the compote and swirled it around before taking a bite. Since Alfred was in the room, he took care to finish chewing before opening his mouth. 

“That would be really fun, but… are you sure you’re ready? The last time I saw you on Leopold you didn’t look so good.” 

Well that stung. 

“I’ve been taking extra lessons with Alfred,” he said quickly. “He's declared me all set, right Alfred?” 

Alfred gave him a long glance over Dick’s shoulder.

“I’ve declared something roughly approximating that, Master Bruce.” 

Under the shroud of that foreboding statement, they finished breakfast and descended down to the barn, where the horses were already in their stalls, their customary place to avoid the daytime heat. They tacked up their horses as Dick chatted about this and that, and Bruce was reaching for the bridle when Alfred interrupted him.

“No sir, not this time.” 

Bruce’s mind raced to what he _thought_ was the logical conclusion. “I know we’ve been practicing, but I don’t think I should go without a bridle…”

Dick popped up from underneath Alfred’s elbow. “Oh,” he said. “Gee, Alfred, if I’d known this was why you’d asked me to start ponying Leopold, I would have been begging to go out a lot sooner.” 

“Pony?” Bruce asked. “I’m sensing that’s being used as a verb here.” 

“Master Bruce, Leopold’s lead line shall be tied to Mr. Nickers’ saddle, as you have demonstrated a remarkable inability to keep your hands on the reins. Master Dick will ride Mr. Nickers, and Leopold, with you in tow, will follow along.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” God, as if the humiliation of The Reins Incident wasn’t enough. 

Alfred sniffed imperiously. “I deemed it beneath your importance. After all, the only skill required lies with Master Dick, to guide you safely on your journey through the woods.” 

Dick’s voice cut through Bruce’s subsequent indignation. “Is it gonna be a problem, Bruce? Because if you don’t like it, we can just ride in the arena, or do something else.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce said, as kindly as he could manage while staring daggers at Alfred. “I don’t mind if I look a little silly. After all, it’s just me and you, kiddo.”

“Don’t worry,” Dick reassured him. “I had to pony lots and lots of horses for the circus. The head trainer asked me to help exercise them and that was the only way to get them all done by the end of the day.” 

They finished tacking up and put on their helmets. They stood outside against the picturesque barn wall, each holding their own horse, while Alfred snapped a picture. He then pulled a couple of radios out of the golf cart.

“Here, sirs. For each of you there is a radio, to be used in case of an emergency. Keep them on your person, _not_ on the saddle. I shall have the third radio with me, and will respond promptly to any issues.”

“Thanks Alfred,” they chorused.

“I expect the two of you to be washed up and ready for lunch by one’o’clock. You must care for your horses when you return, so be sure to give yourself enough time to do so.”

“Of course, Alfred,” Dick said. Bruce echoed his statement, glancing at his watch. 9 AM. They had plenty of time. 

“Then go on and venture out. Above all, be safe!” 

With Alfred’s blessing, Dick hopped up onto Mr. Nickers and Bruce onto Leopold. It felt strange not having reins to hold on to, but Alfred had buckled something called a “grab strap” around Leopold’s neck for him to clutch at instead. 

They set off down a lane behind the barn, Alfred waving them on as they went. Soon the trees closed in and blocked off the building, and then they were truly in the woods.

“How do you know where you’re going?” Bruce asked absently, swatting a cobweb out of the way. 

“Alfred gave me a map.” With the slightest touch on his reins, Dick guided Mr. Nickers to the left branch of the trail. Leopold followed the pony. He didn’t seem to realize he was even attached to him by a lead. 

“I’m impressed that you can figure your way around without having been out here before.” 

“It’s just like in the city,” Dick chirped. “You taught me that, and… well, it’s not so different.” 

It really _was_ different, Bruce thought. He’d grown up on this land and had absolutely no clue where they were. There were a lot of things on the manor grounds that he’d ignored as he grew older, and this seemed like one of them. To think his parents had brought him out here almost every day when he’d been a child...

“Hey Bruce?” 

“Yeah, chum?”

“Thanks for going riding with me. This is a lot of fun.” 

And there it was: Dick’s ability to plainly and openly communicate his emotions, whereas Bruce, over twice his age, still struggled with it, even when dealing with Dick himself.

“Thank _you_ for taking the lead.”

Dick cackled at the bad pun, and Bruce took the moment to appreciate the way he was smiling. Then he rode straight into a cobweb and frantically brushed his face. All the little snacks the spider had spun into its web crunched under his hand, and he never did find the spider itself. 

They came to a creek crossing where Dick let the horses rest in the cool running water. Leopold began to paw at it with his front hooves, and the water splashed all over Dick, who laughed charmingly. 

“That feels good, Leopold! Do it some more!” And then, to Bruce, “Look at how smart your horse is. He’s trying to cool me off!”

This was the best idea he’d had in some time, Bruce mused. Dick was so plainly enjoying himself. And, if he were honest, he was enjoying it too. What wasn’t to like? He was spending time with his son on a gorgeous day, on a horse that actually behaved, in the woods his family had owned for generations. 

About an hour had passed when they came up to a big field that Bruce actually recognized-- it wasn’t too far from the house.

“Are we going back already?” he asked. “Alfred gave us another couple of hours to ride.”

“No, I’m just taking us on loops closer to the house so we’re never too far away. You know we don’t want to make Alfred mad by being late.” 

Smart boy. 

They paused at the treeline. There was a sharp delineation between the shade of the trees and the broad sunny field ahead. He found himself wishing he’d worn sunglasses. 

“Could we canter in the field? I know you’ve only done it a few times with Leopold, and that was in the arena, but it’s nice and flat, and--”

“I can manage it,” Bruce said. Maybe ‘manage it’ was a strong word, but Leopold had proven thus far that he was surprisingly good at adjusting to Bruce’s incompetencies in order to keep him in the saddle. 

“Alright,” Dick said. “We’ll go slow and stop at the end of the field. Pay attention to what I do.” 

With that, he cued Mr. Nickers into a controlled canter and Leopold obediently followed along. This wasn’t so hard. Leopold’s canter was a rolling, relaxed thing, smoother in fact than his trot.

They were halfway across the field when Dick turned his face to him and said something, but the wind in his ears prevented him from hearing a single word. Bruce nodded ignorantly. If he pretended he knew what Dick was saying, that was as good as actually hearing it, right?

It happened in a chain reaction.

They were nearing the end of the field. Dick began to rein in Mr. Nickers. Mr. Nickers slowed down. Leopold, attached to Mr. Nickers, also slowed down. Bruce, on top of Leopold, did not slow down. In a perfect example of the law of inertia, Bruce went tumbling over Leopold’s head and landed face-down in the grass several feet away. The impact knocked the breath out of his lungs. He was utterly limp. 

He heard Leopold stepping over him, and then--

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." Dick’s voice raced towards him. Then small hands were on his shoulders, trying vainly to flip him over. “Bruce, are you okay? Please be okay, you can’t not be okay!”

Dick sounded panicked. Bruce tried his best to utter something, and managed a particularly pathetic grunt. He had never fallen this hard outside of the Batsuit. As it was, it felt like he’d taken a punch from Bane straight to the solar plexus. Dick’s attempts to roll him over became more frantic. 

“Get up!” Dick shrieked, voice progressing to hysterical levels. “Get _up_! You have to get up!” 

Bruce gathered his willpower enough to roll over. Something was upsetting his son. He had to get up. He had to help Dick. Where was the threat? If only he could catch his breath...

Those same small hands were now slapping his face with an impressive amount of force. “You big, stupid, dumb idiot! Get up right now!” 

“Dick,” he wheezed. “Calm down.” 

“You’re okay?” Dick gasped. His face was white as a sheet. Bruce nodded, and as his vision improved, he saw that both Mr. Nickers and Leopold had backed away, presumably scared by the yelling.

His son burst into tears.

Before he could do or say anything about it, Dick turned away and grabbed Mr. Nickers’ bridle. He patted the horse’s face soothingly before reaching to his side for the little radio Alfred had given him. 

Bruce laid on his back in the field, staring at the beautiful sky and the birds flying above. He overheard Dick’s conversation with Alfred over the radio, but didn’t process it. After a few moments, Alfred drove up in the golf cart. He hopped out and immediately came to Bruce’s side. 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “are you quite alright?” 

With Alfred’s help he managed to sit upright. 

“Nothing happened,” Bruce said, probing at his side. “A little knock on the head isn’t going to keep me down.” 

“Nothing happened to _you_ ,” Alfred said quietly, giving a long glance to the boy who was still several yards away, petting Mr. Nickers over and over. “I cannot say the same for Master Dick.”  
  
“What are you talking about? He didn’t fall off.”

Alfred clenched his jaw. “Pray the Lord above help and preserve me in the land of your damnable ignorance.” 

Bruce felt well enough now to get up and shuffle to the golf cart. His head still hurt and there was an aching in his chest, but it wasn’t dire. Alfred went over to speak with Dick, who said that he'd take the horses back to the barn while Alfred attended to Bruce. 

"Nonsense, my dear boy. Look, here comes a groundsman now to relieve you in your duties. I assure you that he will give them a nice long bath in your stead." 

"If you're sure," came Dick's subdued reply. 

"Most definitely. Now come along and we'll be off to the manor. I believe that a full bowl of turtle tracks ice cream awaits you."

Dick reluctantly handed the reins off to the groundsman and came to sit in the back of the golf cart while Alfred took the driver's seat. 

They rode back to the manor in silence except for Dick's occasional sniffle. Bruce got the distinct impression that Alfred was very cross with him, and was holding back a vicious tongue-lashing only for Dick's sake. 

When they arrived home, Alfred ushered Dick into the house, ignoring Bruce in the process. He trailed in after them. What had he done? Why was Alfred giving him the silent treatment? Perhaps more curiously, why was Dick doing it too?

He loitered in the hall while Alfred took Dick into the small parlor Bruce had repurposed into a ‘family room’. 

"Settle yourself down here, young sir. Enjoy your ice cream and I shall return before you know it."

Dick said something in reply, too quiet for him to hear, and then Alfred was in the hallway, attempting to set him on fire with his eyes. He set off down the hallway towards Bruce’s master suite, and he knew he had no choice but to follow.

As soon as they arrived, Alfred spun around and shut the door quietly, but with a great deal of reserved force. Bruce wanted to speak and head off the inevitable tirade, but one clear look at Alfred’s expression rendered him speechless.

“Sit in the chair so that I may more thoroughly examine you. Sir.” 

Bruce obliged and shrugged off his shirt. There was no disobeying Alfred when he became this way. Cold, less-than-gentle fingers began poking his intercostal muscles and he felt, rather than heard, the moment Alfred decided to begin his tirade. 

"I cannot possibly fathom what delirium came upon you for you to think cantering with him was a good idea."

"It was _his_ idea, Alfred." As soon the words tumbled out of his mouth he realized how stupid and childish he sounded. 

"Very good, sir. How upstanding of you to place the blame for your actions squarely onto the shoulders of a young child."

The examination continued in silence until Alfred stepped back with his diagnosis. His face was grim and he turned away slightly as he spoke, as if he could not bear to speak directly at him. 

“You have a concussion and will develop quite impressive bruising on your torso. As for the rest of the matter, I sincerely hope that you’re satisfied with the fright you gave young Master Dick.” 

“God, it wasn’t like I _tried_ to fall off.” Bruce had muttered it as an aside, not intending to make a point of it, but Alfred’s superhuman hearing caught onto it and he spun around, the very picture of wrath. 

“Do _not_ take that tone with me, Master Wayne, and do not attempt to dissemble. You participated in an activity you knew you were not yet prepared for, without consideration for the harm that might befall you or the effect it might have upon that precious boy to watch it occur.” 

Leave it to Alfred to level him with just a couple of sentences. He couldn’t think of anything to fire back, and really, should he? Would he have done this as Batman, leaving Robin to watch as he was injured? Of course not; he’d altered his entire modus operandi to ensure that Dick would _never_ have to see him fall, or get wounded, or--

“Shit,” he said. 

“That is exactly what you should feel like,” Alfred bit out. “Now, if you will excuse me, _sir_ , I am venturing downstairs to care for the _child_ in your custody who, on the anniversary of his parents’ deaths, for a moment believed that he had lost another.” He swept out of the room and soon his rapid footsteps disappeared down the hall. 

He hadn’t ever seen Alfred so mad. It was beyond intimidating and frankly into the territory of frightening. He’d never managed to provoke this sort of temper even in his wildest and most insolent teenage years. Alfred had always seemed to be unflappable, and even when he got irritated he maintained poise and decorum, opting for cutting wit rather than plain derision. 

It felt… really unpleasant.

The worst part was-- he knew he’d fucked up, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Alfred was right. He’d put himself at risk in a way that he never would have done as Batman, and made Dick watch it. He tried to imagine how he would have felt, even as standoffish as he’d been, if at age 9 Alfred had appeared to be shot in front of him. Even if Alfred had been fine immediately after, Bruce would have been inconsolable, and if it had been Alfred’s own idiotic decision to start with…

Bruce got up with a wince, reaching for his grass-stained polo before deciding against it. Better to go downstairs _not_ wearing something that reminded Dick of the fall. With that in mind, he changed into something far simpler than he regularly wore-- sweatpants and a Gotham Knights t-shirt.

He felt like a dog who’d been scolded for eating the roast, but exceptionally more guilty. At least the dog would have had the excuse of satisfying a base desire, whereas he’d done something utterly thoughtless and therefore inexcusable. He trekked downstairs, opening and closing doors as quietly as he could. 

Voices carried from the family room. Ever so softly, Bruce padded along the hallway until he stood just out of sight beside the door frame. 

“You must know,” came Alfred’s gentle voice, “that it was not his intention to frighten you, or to remind you of the loss of your parents, or anything of the like.” 

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Dick mumbled. 

“No,” Alfred said. “It doesn’t.”

“I feel like it was my fault because I asked if we could canter. And I should have known, and it was just like back then. He fell, and he wouldn’t get up, and…” Dick’s voice devolved into tears.

“My dear boy,” Alfred said, “words cannot express the pain that you feel, but I do believe that actions can help to soothe them. And there is someone here who would like to show that they are very, very sorry indeed.” 

Alfred had to be psychic. Bruce had made sure to be absolutely silent as he approached.

Bruce stepped forward to hover in the threshold, feeling like a large and burdensome idiot. Alfred sat beside Dick on the couch, and on the side table sat an untouched and halfway melted bowl of ice cream. 

That was a bad sign. Alfred’s ice cream had always been an irresistible treat for Dick in the past. He had turned it up, after not having eaten since breakfast? God, Bruce had fucked up so badly.

“Hey chum,” he said. Should he step in? Should he wait for Dick to invite him? Alfred was completely expressionless and gave no cues.

Dick glanced up at him, and even from this far away Bruce saw his tear-stained face and bloodshot eyes. 

“You’re an idiot,” Dick said. Alfred, usually so stern about politeness, said nothing. “A big selfish idiot.” 

Bruce exhaled and made the decision to enter the room. He lowered himself down into the chair across from the couch, and learned forward with his hands folded over his knees. 

“I can’t disagree with you there,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” Making excuses would just worsen the situation. He had to be a man and take his punishment, whatever Dick and Alfred decided it to be. 

“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” Dick continued. 

“I don’t expect you to. I was stupid and put myself at risk for no reason.”

“You’ve got to make it up to me.” 

“I will.” And that was the truth. He’d do anything to get a smile back onto Dick’s face. 

“Alfred and I have decided what your punishment will be.” He paused, rubbing at his eyes. When he looked up again, the tears were gone and his little face had settled into a determined frown. “From now on you have to ride Leopold at least thirty minutes a day, every day, until Alfred says you’re not a terrible rider any more.” 

“I agree,” Bruce said quickly. He’d figure out the details later, but right now it seemed like a paltry sacrifice. 

“It doesn’t matter how busy you are,” he added. “If you’re going to do stupid things on horses then you have to learn how to ride without falling off.” 

“I’ll do it,” he said firmly. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll ride until my legs fall off. And then Alfred will probably pick one up off the ground and beat me with it for being so dumb.” 

That got a small smile. “No, he’d yell at you for littering instead.” He glanced at Alfred, whose expression softened. 

Bruce took the opportunity and ran with it. 

“I know you’re still mad at me, and you have every right to be, but… I was thinking we could spend the rest of the day doing something inside.” 

“Like what?”

“Well, Catwoman said that you had a codename for Mr. Nickers--”

Dick’s back stiffened in surprise. “She _told_ you?!” 

“--And I was thinking, why don’t we watch Black Beauty?” 

“What a wonderful idea,” Alfred said, standing up and grabbing the now-melted ice cream. “I shall retrieve the movie from our collection.” 

With that permission, Bruce moved over to the couch, where Dick spent a moment pretending to ignore him. Then he scooted over to Bruce and pulled a big wool blanket down from the back of the couch. 

“You’re still an idiot,” Dick murmured, nestling into his side. Bruce settled an arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer.

“Trust me, I know."

“But I forgive you, because Alfred says that you just can’t help being an idiot, and besides...” 

Bruce waited for him to finish the sentence, content with Dick’s warm weight up against him. 

“I can’t stay mad at my dad for long.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks sticking with me through this little fic! I hope you all enjoyed it.


End file.
